Window Painter

Photo of Margie

A handful of fabricated boxes dropped in the middle of the desert. Sleeping giants and dragons fixed to the desert floor, delivering ruddy rumors from the Rocky Mountains to Mexico. Winds drive the endless sun from horizon to horizon, casting ever-changing shadows in their wake. Winter gypsies, outlaws, and seasonal entrepreneurs gather to escape harsher winters and exchange stories of all sizes, which are both unbelievable and true. This is the Arizona I know and love.

I had my heart set on painting oceans and eucalyptus trees this winter, but determined not to swim upstream, I have chosen to focus instead on my true hearts desire—the figure. Now, not being the kind of person to choose anything simple, I am convinced I have chosen well. Figures are the most difficult subject of all. There can be no mistakes in representational figure painting. If I were to reposition a branch on a tree, no one would be the wiser, but try doing that with an eye or nose. It just doesn’t fly. And, how do you present a portrait in such a way as to make it appealing enough to be a suitable edition to the home of a stranger?

I like working with formal instruction. It is the only area of my life where I like to be told what to do. And, it is difficult finding a good portrait instructor, especially in a desolate desert town with a population of maybe 20.

I had made my weekly trip into “town” (population of maybe 100) and waiting in front of the bank, a woman walked up with a caddy of paints and brushes and began to paint the window in front of me. “Oh, another window painter,” I thought to myself. She amazed me enough to approach her after she was done. “Tell me you normally paint with oil. Tell me you paint portraits, and tell me you give classes.” She answered yes to each question. After “the holidays” I will take her up on it and see how it goes.

My gift to myself this year was new oil paints, a Heilman Pastel Box, and the promise to myself to put them to good use.

Follow along. May your holidays be filled with color.

This blog is sponsored by:  cmagellen.com

I’ve been thinking lately about crime, in general, and more specific the gangs that are out of control in this country. And while the Gangs are a real problem and commit a lot of crimes, their total carnage pales in comparison to the so called White Collar criminals. The big difference between those two faction is the violence involved. The word Outlaw popped up and it got me to thinking maybe, just maybe it’s time it made a come back.
If the legal system was doing its job, if it was working the way it’s supposed to I wouldn’t need to even suggest this idea. But it isn’t, it’s a failed institution riddled with its own problems.

Gangs are the violent problem, after watching some of the Gangland series on the History Channel, I had no idea it was this bad, that such out of control brutality is allowed to exist.
Well if they system can’t deal with the problem then maybe we need to look back in time at the root of the word Outlaw. I’m going to borrow from, Wiki for this.

Outlawry was a formal judgment that a person was an outlaw, or literally “outside the law”. This is different from the modern usage of “outlaw”, i.e., a criminal who is evading custody.

An outlaw or bandit is a person living the lifestyle of outlawry; the word literally means “outside the law”.[1]
In the common law of England, a “Writ of Outlawry” declared the subject to be “Caput gerat lupinum” (that is, “Let his be a wolf’s head”), and it followed not only that, since the subject was no longer human, he had no legal rights, but also that he could be killed on sight as if a wolf or wild animal. Outlawry was thus one of the harshest penalties in the legal system, since the outlaw could not use the law to protect himself if needed, such as from mob justice, and could be robbed or even murdered with impunity.[2]

In the common law of England, a judgment of (criminal) outlawry was one of the harshest penalties in the legal system, since the outlaw could not use the legal system to protect them if needed, e.g. from mob justice. To be declared an outlaw was to suffer a form of civil death. The outlaw was debarred from all civilized society. No one was allowed to give him food, shelter, or any other sort of support — to do so was to commit the crime of aiding and abetting, and to be in danger of the ban oneself. An outlaw might be killed with impunity; and it was not only lawful but meritorious to kill a thief flying from justice — to do so was not murder. Because the outlaw has defied civil society, that society was quit of any obligations to the outlaw —outlaws had no civil rights, could not sue in any court on any cause of action, though they were themselves personally liable. In effect, (criminal) outlaws were criminals on the run who were “wanted alive or dead”.
The way I understand it, when a person chose a criminal path and became a real problem, but couldn’t be dealt with using ordinary means, refused to comply with the law and justice system. They were declared to be an Outlaw, which also meant they were then living outside the protection the law affords. The old wanted Dead or Alive posters we all know from Western movies and books reflect that designation. Anyone could kill an outlaw without fear of reprisal or punishment; probably get a reward of some sort. Kill a bad enough one you could get a parade and become famous enough to land your name and deed in the history books..

So what would happen if we did that today, here in this country. Tag all those outlaw gang members and let the people have open season. The people are certainly well armed, except in States like California, where Ironically they have some serious gang problems. California may even be the source of gang expansion. That would go back to the Bloods and the Crips, one wore red the other wore blue bandannas. That kinda pissed me off years ago because I was a big fan of red and blue bandannas for work and at other times. Well they are after all a useful thing to own, there are whole lists of things you can do with a bandanna, especially if you are out in the desert or the woods, the wilderness.

Back to the subject here before I get too far sidetracked.
Outlaws, should we or shouldn’t we? These are not just good boys gone bad, they have gone past bad into wild animal territory. I think they should be met with the same force and brutality they inflict on others. Especially the random killing for sport. What’s up with that anyway? Anyone that goes out and just kills at random is a rabid animal that needs to be put down fast and hard. Take a few dozen or hundred down and I’ll bet it will get the full attention of the rest. Better yet once they are declared officially as Outlaws, post their photo’s everywhere, on posts and fences, poles and billboards, and everywhere online. Force the Media to give up space to list them, be it in a newspaper or on TV or Radio, magazines, the whole full spectrum. Plaster their faces and everything known about them everywhere people can see and or hear.

Let the people be Deputized as Outlaw Hunters. Bring out the long rifles with the big scopes. Let 500 People go out together and drive them into a killing zone where the long rifles can pick them off. What ever it takes.
And for you Namby Pamby Pussies and all the Do-Gooder coddlers out there who might read this someday. I’ll remind you of an old traditional saying that also needs a come back, ALL is Fair in Love and War. This is War, we didn’t start it but we sure as hell can finish it. If they wish to live among the rest of us then they need to change their ways.
One other thing that would help us rid ourselves of these outlaw thugs, and that’s end the war on drugs. Yep I said Legalize all drugs. That is not as crazy an idea as you are thinking. I refer you to LEAP, Law Enforcement Against Prohibition, their Web site is www.LEAP.cc Leap is primarily Law Enforcement people retired and active. The people that have been on the front lines of this failed War on Drugs Richard Nixon started. They know it isn’t working and isn’t winnable. Plus prison doesn’t work. They are and have been getting a much larger success rate with counciling and other treatments.
Will the whole country sudden;y go drug crazy if they are legalized, not hardly. All the people who won’t use drugs now still won’t if they are legalized. If you look at history you see the proof that only a small portion of the population indulges in drugs outside of Alcohol and Caffeine on a regular basis. Alcohol causes far more problems and damage than all the rest put together. And millions upon millions are speed addicts, Caffeine is speed, it may be the low end of the spectrum but it’s still speed. Try taking away Coffee and Tea as well as certain soft drinks and you would tempt riots in the streets in every City and State. Caffeine offers some nasty withdrawals to anyone quitting cold turkey.
Do that and the Prisons would empty the bulk of their populations. The Black market for drugs would dry up over night. And that would cut off the money the gangs depend on. There would be no profit in smuggling a legal product, nor in selling questionable drugs when the guaranteed real thing sans pollutants or who knows what they cut it with, can be bought at every corner drug store for less.
\
Plus we get to tax it all. The revenues stream on Pot alone would be in the Billions. And it has to be the safest drug on the planet, as well as having many legitimate medical uses. Read the book Jack Herrer wrote, The Emperor Wears No Clothes and you will get a good education in the truth, as compared to the lies you have been told all your life by the Government. The whole War on Drugs is rooted in two very troubled men Harry J. Anslinger and Richard M. Nixon. Both of whom would have benefited from some good long term therapy. Harry was the first Drug Car and a dedicated Liar as well as a racist and biggot. The really troubling part of Harry and his lies is that there are a lot of people that even today still believe everything he said was absolute truth. If you ever saw the movie Reefer Madness, it’s a page right out of Harry’s twisted mind. One puff off a reefer and you turn into a maniac murderer, or a Heroine addict prostitute, depending on your Gender. It makes Black men want to have sex with, rape if necessary, all white women. It makes people aggressive enough to run around murdering any and everyone they see. It also turns them into pacifists to laid back to hold a gun or fight in the military. That’s right he told both lies, one out of each side of his twisted mouth. And he told them to Congress. Harry also told Congress that the AMA, the medical community was 100% behind making Marijuana criminal. The truth was the medical community said no such thing, they were in fact of just the opposite opinion. But since they were calling the plant by it’s real name Cannabis, they didn’t kn ow that the Marijuana Harry was spouting off about was the same plant. Marijuana was the Mexican slang term for Cannabis Sativa. Harry went so far as to convince Congress that it’s cousin Cannabis Hemp, which doesn’t contain enough THC to get a Gnat high, or a human even if they smoked a whole Semi-Truck load, but does provide the raw material for hundreds of useful products, including some of the best oil for health, or fuel on the planet, should be banned right along with the will get you high kind.

The point here being that We need to do something to put this country back on track, to rid ourselves of the problems that threaten our security from within. I guess we could also consider declaring the Gangs as domestic terrorists. Let Homeland Security at them under the Patriot Act. That would be enough to scare me into walking the straight and narrow path of legality.
There is more to this, more information you need to make an intelligent and informed decision. I’ll let you go find that on your own, it’s all right there at your finger tips.

Let me ask you again, Would you spend a Dollar to buy back your country? Would you spend a Dollar a month, or a week? If we could get every man woman and child living in this country to donate just a single dollar we could buy back our country. I would first use that money to buy back our jobs. Re-open business or start new ones that hire people. Creating jobs is a must do first step. Once we have our jobs back the revenue will start flowing. Then if we start using our power of the vote to elect good people and stop re-electing the same old problem politicians term after term, if we start doing what the system was designed to do, we pay off the debt and spend our money where it needs to be spent. We could cure cancer and other nasty diseases. I’ve heard it said that a cure could cost up to 200 Billion dollars. Ok, that’s not chump change, but think about how much money Obama spent already, and it’s not even been a whole year since he started spending, on the War and on Bailing out the Greedy Corporations; several times that amount. The so called War on Terror is Black Hole for money and time. We can’t win a religious war, unless we are willing to kill them all, as fast as possible. And we know that will never happen. Maybe old Ronnie Reagan was right when he said what we need to pull this planet together is a common enemy, like an Alien invasion, from the Stars not someplace like Mexico. If we faced such a global threat the petty squabbles here would be just that in comparison.
There is a solution to ending this War, I’m just not 100% sure what that is or how we get the Industrial Military Complex to find and use one, but we better at least try.

You have a few things to think about. You come up with a workable solution, post it in the comment section. The email me part isn’t working until I give it a new address.
Until the next Ramble, Happy Trails,
Ho

I love the restaurant at the St. James Hotel in Cimarron.

I love that I can get in my car in Logan with my boyfriend and be in Red River in less than three hours. And I love that this past Friday, on the way to spend half-price weekend in Red River (half price on lodging, ski lift tickets, rentals, etc. – it’s a tradition in Red River, and a mighty fine one at that!), Dave suggested that we stop at the St. James in Cimarron and have my belated birthday dinner.

For those of you that haven’t been to Cimarron, there’s a whole ‘nother blog post about how much I love Cimarron. In the eastern foothills of the Sangre de Cristos, one of those New Mexico villages that has a history of outlaws and land grants (the largest in the world at one time), on the Santa Fe Trail, and now filled with colorful shops but not in the least pretentious, Cimarron is one of my favorite places in the state. It’s just that until recently it’s always been on the way to somewhere for me – we pass through it going to Taos or Angel Fire or Red River or Questa, and it’s usually where we stop for gas at Russell’s or ice cream or a calzone (all of which deserve their own post. Just give me time).

 But one weekend this fall when we got a wild hair and went to Red River for a Saturday night, I turned off the main road in Cimarron on our way home and drove down to the St. James Hotel. I thought Dave would appreciate the outlaw and ghost stories, and it’s such a gorgeous building that it deserved another look from me. The Hotel sits in a great spot, just over a little bridge in the middle of Cimarron’s old town. It was built in 1872 by a guy who cooked for Ulysses S. Grant and Abe Lincoln and then came west looking for fortune and adventure. I think he found both in abundance.

What we discovered while wandering the hallway where the ghosts supposedly live (it is a little spooky, but I mean that in the best way possible) is that Lucien Maxwell, the owner of the largest land grant in the world at one time, has a wife whose maiden name is Beaubien, just like Dave. We spent that warm fall Sunday afternoon exploring, taking pictures of the graves of Maxell’s mother-in-law (obviously a Beaubien), taking the walking tour, peeking into the old jail, seeing where the Santa Fe Trail came right into town, and reading about the characters that stayed in the St. James, all the outlaws that either killed or were killed (at least 26 in all – more later on that – that’s also a whole ‘nother blog post as well). We took a turn through the dining room and bar, where there are bullet holes in the ceiling, and we vowed to come back and stay sometime soon. (more info at www.cimarronnm.com)

So on Friday, when Dave suggested a stop for dinner, I was excited to try it. The restaurant is very tastefully done – nothing over the top, but decorating that is obviously reminiscent of the history of the place. There’s a picture in the bar that was bought in England in the 19^th century and brought here by the son of the original owner. There’s a huge two-sided fireplace in the dining room that was blazing on Friday night, and surrounded by people who all appeared to be kin to each other. The original bar is massive – and bellied up to it were several locals. In fact, the place was full of locals, all friendly, greeting one another, creased Wranglers and polished boots, and numerous Stetsons. Dave said, “These aren’t the types of cowboys I’m used to – there guys are ranchers instead of cow hands.” And they were – a very genteel but jovial crowd that made me want to get acquainted with all of them.

And to top off all that great atmosphere, the service and food were great. We ordered rib eyes – Dave the large, me the small – and they were cooked perfectly. The salad was good – not your usual iceberg and cheddar cheese served in most eastern New Mexico steakhouses. I had the homemade bleu cheese dressing and had to restrain myself from picking up the plate and licking it. The rolls were yummy.

And the service was great. Our waitress was attentive without hovering, and then the boss, or the owner, or whoever he was, a handsome tall man in cowboy hat and creased jeans himself, came around and visited with us, checking in to be sure we were completely pleased with how the meal was going.

I’m going back. It was the perfect birthday dinner – delicious and gracious in the midst of a really friendly crowd that seemed to be having a great time on a Friday night. Next time we’ll get a room and stay there – the boss told me that they serve a heck of a breakfast buffet to their guests. Like I’d need to eat again in 12 hours after that dinner.

I love good food. We have an abundance of it in New Mexico. Want to hear all about it?

More later. . .

Click the link at the bottom for a short, 5 page screenplay, that I wrote in about twenty minutes. And true to everything else I’ve ever written I haven’t read it back over once yet, so please excuse grammatical issues, or spelling fuck-ups.

Don’t be offended, it’s meant to make you smile, in a weird way.

Open wide and use your eyes,

Dickie LeRoo

Merry Christmas, George

Lost Season 1 Episode 16 Outlaws

Alternative:

Or:

Part 1

Part 2

Or:

]]> http://knockuout.wordpress.com/2009/11/29/29-more-of-the-same/ Mon, 30 Nov 2009 03:39:08 +0000 Yo-yo Mama http://knockuout.wordpress.com/2009/11/29/29-more-of-the-same/

Thanksgiving day we originally and tentatively planned on having supper for his side of the family at our house. We have the most dining space, plus it would be easier to manuever the MIL and her wheelchair once we snuck her out of the nursing home for the afternoon. But SIL said that we shouldn’t bother. Let’s go to The Club where they’ll be serving a buffet and just let someone else do all the work. OK, I thought, that’s cool, especially since everyone here was sick in some form or fashion.

Wednesday evening I discover that SIL is having dinner at her house. See you there! Ugh.

I used the rest of Friday to prepare the dinner for my side of the family at our house. Potluck style, which worked out really well. Except for the devilled eggs.

Care to guess how many dozen eggs it took for me to get enough decent for serving? Go ahead, guess.

We were up late Friday night cleaning up and Sparring Partner offered to take the kids to McDonalds in the morning so as to both keep the kitchen in order and to keep everyone out of my hair while I did some last minute prepping. It was a good plan until Aitch woke up once again vomiting Saturday morning after a couple days of appearing to be better. It wasn’t a huge mess this time, but I kept her home with me while Sparring Partner and Doodicus went out for their Scottish breakfast. I gave Aitch half a bottle and plunked her in the high chair while I worked on the eggs, emptying the dishwasher and polishing my fancy glasses (when I say “polish”, I mean dust them off since the last time they were used was when I put them away in the cabinets – four years ago).

Within minutes of finishing her bottle, Aitch lost the entire contents. It wasn’t pretty. It never is, is it? I was thankful it was in the kitchen just because it meant not pulling out the carpet shampooer yet again.

Are you sick of hearing about us being sick yet? I’m sick of telling you, so don’t feel bad if you are.

She had no dairy for the rest of the day. My mother felt it necessary to shovel her full of cranberries and corn until I sternly told her to knock it off. “She’s hungry!” “Then feed her some of this applesauce and make her some toast, because DUH!” Okay, I didn’t say “because DUH!”, but only because I was just too tired to start any shit with her.

Today we all feel a bit better. Aitch kept everything down, but she hasn’t been eating much. It’s been a full week since this all started and while I understand that stuffy noses and coughs can linger, vomiting randomly is not the norm. I’m hoping for a better week to follow.

My motto worked this time: Expect the worst, when it happens, you’re prepared, and if it doesn’t, you’re pleasantly surprised!

So Mother In Law and Father In Law came in Wednesday afternoon, and we had a pleasant and light meal of (couldn’t find anything wrong with it except too many green beans) vegetable soup and (this is pretty good!) cornbread. Pleasantries happened, and around 8 the Gossip kicked in, at which point I said “Well! I don’t know any of these people you’re talking about and don’t care about their unfortunate congenital disorders, so I’m going to bed! Goodnight!” Terry fixed breakfast the next morning (“Oh I don’t like any kind of Mrs Dash and I don’t want that. Salt really needs to be added to the grits when you cook them, it’s not the same if you have to add it at the table.”), and the dinner preparations commenced. I got on her good side by admitting it had been 100 years since I baked a ham, so she told me how to do it, and a very good ham it was, too.

Her dressing, of course, was stellar. The turkey, cooked by someone else somewhere else, was a touch dry but that’s probably because I had to warm it up. Totally worth the $25. I’m never cooking a turkey again because I had the whole oven (convection, BTW, I’ll never go back to a normal oven) for dressing, potatoes, and ham. All at the same time. Yes.

There was no discussion about my lack of parenting skills. No snarky commentary on the condition of the house, no lectures to CJ on his behavior. I only relied on fortified cranberry juice twice: a half-hour before they came in Wednesday, and last night. They left this morning after breakfast, even when we told them there was plenty of room for them and Scott&Co. “You’ll want to have time to spend with them without us in the way.” Bless them!

So now the fridge is full of all sorts of goodies for noshing on the rest of the weekend, ham for Hawaiian pizza tonight, and biscuits tomorrow. And stuff. Lots of this and that people can fix them a plate or bowl of if they’re hungry. Bean soup, vegetable soup, Lordy I won’t have to cook for days. The house is clean, all it needed was a sweep and a change of the sheets on the guest bed and now BRING ON THE NEXT WAVE!

I am listening to the triumphant bit of the Gladiator Soundtrack, cranked up loud to drown out that whatever-it-is David listens to.

And, I am very, very happy. Oh, you don’t KNOW how I’m smiling, and dancing around with the broom and hugging my kids!

antidote to tryptophan coma and mother in law boredom: Military channel talking about Abrams tanks, and a deep glass of cranberry and vodka.

There is the son “you just threw away like yesterdays garbage” leaning against my knees on the couch, after he and I took a walk on the golfcourse and shot the breeze. But see, I don’t love him, I mean, I barely tolerate his presence. But see, she loves him more than I ever will. That’s why he told me “Mom, I’ll probably always live nearby…I’m too much of a mama’s boy to get too far away from your cooking.” Because he’s yesterdays’ garbage doncha know.

We’re comparing notes…Mom, what would you do with an Abrams tank? Why son, I’d drive you to school every day in it. See, mom, that’s why you’re awesome. Son, what would you do with an Abram’s? Mom, I’d pick you up after church and take you for Mexican in it… Son, I’d totally let you borrow it for the Prom. Mom, I’d let you drive it to Prayer Group.

Yeah, yesterdays garbage said it was my cranberry sauce that made the meal.

Rootie’s cranberry sauce
1 bag of fresh cranberries
1 cup orange juice
1 cup sugar
zest of 1 orange
Put it in a pot, bring to a boil and simmer until the berries pop and it gets thick
Chill until gelled. It’s even easier than trying to get that jelly shit out of the can.

I believe I will never ever cook a turkey again. We got a deep fried turkey ($25) from Uncle Shug’s and it was as good as anything I’ve ever slaved over. And the oven was free for the dressing and scalloped potatoes.

Scalloped Potatoes au gratin
3 pounds russet potatoes, peeled and sliced thin
1 quart heavy cream
5 3 inch sprigs fresh thyme
2 tablespoons minced garlic
1 cup shredded parmesan cheese
Simmer the garlic and thyme in the cream. Layer the potatoes and cheese in a casserole dish and pour the cream mixture on it. Top with some more cheese. Bake at 325 for a while…maybe an hour? until it’s all done and brownish on top.

My wrists are aching and I have calluses (or is that calli?) on my fingers but Itchy and Scratchy is coming right along.  I’ve almost finished the front and tonight I will cast on for the sleeves.  Two at once to combat boredom and then the back.  If all goes well (and I forgo sleep) I hope to be done by next Friday at the latest.

And it really is deliciously itchy and scratchy.  It  just feels so awful and I  swear this yarn is but one step removed from that Phentex plastic crap.  I.  Love.  It.  Well, I love the fact that it’s so vile and that the  FIL will be obligated to wear it. 

Although, I kind of think that all that itchy-and-scratchy-awesomeness will be wasted on the FIL.  I’m pretty sure he has no idea what nice wool feels like and the  MIL has no idea either since she once told me that a ripple afgan she crocheted (it’s actually very nice) needed to be handwashed as it was made out of wool.  Umm yeah wool that came from petrochemical sheep.  It’s 100% acrylic.  To quote the Penguins from Madagascar “smile and wave boys, smile and wave”.

But I’ll know the truth and I’ll laugh my ass off every time the FIL wears it.  Long live Itchy and Scratchy!  And since Itchy is a petrochemical product it really will last forever. 

Pictures will be posted very soon.

She always calls as she’s leaving her house to come here, so I pretty much know exactly when she’s showing up. It’s an 8 hr trip, with 1 hr for lunch and maybe a stop at UND’s, so if they leave at 6 am they’ll be here by supper!

It’s no secret that I don’t like my FIL.  Picture Archie Bunker, but with a Greek accent and that’s the FIL.  Although Archie Bunker was slightly more enlightened.  But before you start to feel bad for the FIL, he doesn’t like me much either.  In fact, last Christmas he told the DH (in front of the WHOLE family) that he made a mistake marrying me.  Good times.

So why am I making the FIL a sweater for Christmas you ask?  That’s a lot of time to spend making someone I don’t like something.  Well, I like my uncle-in-law a lot.  And I have some really nice wool to  make him a sweater.  But I can’t make a sweater for him (the UIL) and not the FIL.  We open presents in front of each other on Christmas Day and while I really don’t like the FIL I’m not going to throw it out there for all to see….I’m trying to take the high road here.

So the plan is to make the UIL a sweater out of nice wool and make the FIL a crew neck sweater made out of the grossest, scratchiest, itchiest acrylic I have in my stash.  The FIL will be obligated to wear it and it will be uncomfortable.  Yes, I am evil and yes, I am going to hell.  I’ll probably see many of you there.

I started Itchy last year  (there’s a post somewhere in the archives but I’m lazy and  can’t be arsed to link it) but gave up on it.  I found it again last month and had to frog most of it, but it’s back baby!  Itchy and Scratchy has risen like a phoenix from the flames and will live to torment the FIL.  Which is why blog posts have been few and far between.  Give me a week or so and I’ll post a picture of Itchy in all it’s glory.  Bwah ha ha ha ha.  Ahem.  Excuse me now, I’ve got a sweater to knit.

Well, this morning I woke up about 4, like usual (It’s ok! It’s not a bad thing!) and settled into praying for my family, like usual, and started fretting about CJ, like usual. “Dear Lord, please let him pass Science, please let him this that and the other” over and over again, working myself up into a state over the whole CJ situation. I’m skilled at fretting. Years of practice and I’m an Olympic caliber worrywart. Anyway. There I lay (laid, lain, help O Grammer Queen) in the dark fretting away getting into a blood pressure situation and something tapped me on the metaphorical shoulder (Oh Hi God, you’re listening!) and said (metaphorically..I know I’m mentally ill but the voices I hear, I know where they come from)

“Look hon, don’t I know every star in the sky and hair on your head? Don’t I know every sparrow that dies and flower that blooms? When are you going to give that child to Me, and trust Me to know what’s best for him, you and Me?”

“um….but I want to be in control of this. I want to know what’s going to happen, and how, and when, and what to do about it and not have to worry.”

Then He said “I never said you had to worry. I told you not to worry. Trust me. Give him to ME and let me handle this.”

“yes Sir.”

So, am I going to quit worrying about CJ? Probably not. Is it a little easier knowing God’s there, to handle things and I don’t have to rely solely on my own? Absolutely. Knowing I am not alone in this is the most relief I’ve felt in months. I’ve done this before, handed a kid and his situation over to God. I don’t know why it’s taken me this long to do it.

Probably because I really don’t like to rely on others for help, even if they want to give it. Even if it’s God offering it. But there is it, and the relief is palpable. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not so naive that I think suddenly everything’s going to be roses and peach cobbler where CJ is concerned. He will still make stupid decisions. He’ll still probably piss off Uncle Navy Dude’s wife enough to get the boot and have to live in his truck for a while. He may even not graduate from high school. But, now I know that even then, God will have his back, and mine. As He’s done before, the answers will come, the wisdom will happen, and we’ll all get through this and be better for it. It’s just that the tunnel we’re in is real bendy, and I can’t see the light at the end of it yet.

Yet another good thing about my mother in law:
She’s offered to take CJ in if UND (or wife) gives him the boot.

My sisters asked if I would host Thanksgiving at my house next Saturday. They said that it will make things easier for mom. I think it’s because the menfolk like that we have satellite whereas my mom and dad have a TV that plugs into a wall and all four channels get their programming from the antenna on top of the house that doubles as a lightning rod.

But I don’t mind. Really.

However, Sparring Partner thinks it’d be really nice if we play host to HIS family on Thursday. I don’t want to. For MY family, we are doing potluck. Mom’s cooking the turkey and bringing it over. For HIS family, we will have to do everything, and I am a horrible cook. Seriously. I’m so bad that one of the reasons I DON’T want to become a stay at home mom is because then I would be expected to prepare supper, and that does not mean having the oven preheated for the ready-made pizza Sparring Partner picks up on his way home.

Plus, the house is a disaster area. Yes, yes, we all complain about messy houses, but while my messy house is perfectly fine for MY family, it does not meet the muster of the in-laws since both my SIL and MIL employ cleaning services (which really?? My SIL and her husband live alone in their house and she works part time…WTF do they need a cleaning lady for?).

So the deal I struck with Sparring Partner is this: this weekend we will clean and pick up (which we normally do on the weekends), but the kicker is that the house will need to stay neat and tidy until Thursday because I have to work Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and I won’t have time Thursday to make the house presentable, much less prepare a Thanksgiving meal for HIS family. If the house does NOT stay neat and tidy, we will not host dinner for HIS family.

I don’t think I’ll even bother to make a grocery list.

However, if you would like to share one of your really easy recipes for a side dish, I’d be forever in your debt!

So at this point, it would appear that Terry’s mother and Uncle Navy Dude have figured out that the issues with CJ are more due to CJ’s inherent personality than our poor parenting style. “hardheaded” is the term that seems to occur the most in reference to his behavior. “hard-wiring’s screwed up” is how UND put it. Anyway. I won’t say they’re on our side yet, but they are definitely realizing that CJ has his own style of living and it’s not all our fault. All that’s left now is UND’s wife. She has told CJ several times that he can’t help being the way he is, because if he’d been mothered properly, and shown the love he deserved, he wouldn’t be “looking for love in all the wrong places.” And apparently she’s just the one to do it. Right now she’s living in Virginia, until she finishes up the job she’s on, and then will move to Madison to live with UND and CJ. Part of me can’t wait to sit back and watch CJ chew her barstool philosophizing to shreds, and another part of me wants to tell him to do whatever she says, even if it means agreeing with her, because I don’t want to see her get pissed and kick him out of the house until after he graduates. Seriously, because even as much as I am annoyed and amused by her, and as much as I appreciate UND’s taking in of CJ, the wife trumps the nephew any day, and he could very well get himself kicked out if he pisses her off.

4. She makes probably the best pound cakes on the planet.

As if in slow motion, Sam and his men made their way to the back of the cave. The yellowish glow of light from the loosely held lanterns swung up and down as it reflected off the tan sandstone walls. Long shadows of men in hats lengthened and shortened, and shakily moved to and fro as they cast themselves over jagged cracks, and deep, inlaid crevices. Flashing glimpses of crudely shaped figures carved into the wall could be seen here and there, now and then. The flickering flames from the lanterns were playing tricks on the eyes of these men. The rank stench remained debilitating, but because they were so intensely focused, they plumb forgot about it.

Sam continued to lead the team in single file. Having seen no signs of danger, he finally put his pistol back in it’s holster. Why the place stunk so bad, he could’t figure out. There were no dead bodies in there, animal or human, as far as Sam could tell. He stopped and turned back to the men. “I think I can see where they had their little fire. Hold your horses for a minute! This could be a trap.” Sam suspiciously moved on forward, keeping an eye out for a wire close to the floor. The ceiling was closing in on him, and he had to crouch down lower and lower as he went. He was within ten feet of the small pile of ashes when he eyed something written on the wall right beside it. It was written in red. Sam’s first thought was ‘paint’, because it looked to have been done with a brush. His second thought was, “Paint? Nobody carries red paint around with them. What the hell?” Without looking back, Sam waved his men towards him and says, “C’mon, and take a look at this.” “Weird,” he thought to himself. He was close enough by then to tell that what he was looking at wasn’t just a little fire some somebody had made just to say warm. This somebody had drawn some kind of picture around the fire by digging out grooves in the dirt. The men gathered into a half circle around the scene. Questioning looks could be seen on the face of every man. Dumbfounded and awestruck, they stood there in silence with their eyes wide open. They didn’t dare gasp for air.

There were four blood-colored symbols painted on the wall — a circle, a square, a triangle, and a five-pointed star. Red drips had ran down the wall under each one of them. Otherwise, the shapes looked perfect. A little too perfect for comfort, as it were. It was the same with the drawings of the symbols and the foreign-looking letters pressed into the dirt around the smallish fire. They were impossibly perfect, and too well done. No doubt, this had been the work of a professional. It was not the remains of some Indian ceremony, nor could it have been done by any ordinary outlaw. Their assumptions pointed directly to the foreign stranger they were chasing. That ruthless murderer had been there! They were sure of it. All in all, it beat the likes of anything any one of them had ever seen. But then again…the whole thing eerily reminded them of something. Every one of these men had an inkling that they had seen something like this before, but not a one of them could remember when, or where they’d seen it. That’s what made this all the more stupefying. Murmured words mumbled forth from their lips, words such as “witchcraft”, and “black magic”, “the occult”, and “the netherworld”. As Sam was standing there, he happened to think of Luke. His thoughts ran like this, “I wonder if he told us everything back at the Deputy’s office. There seems to be something I don’t know. But why would he have withheld information in the first place? I didn’t at all expect this. Good Lord! What kind of man are we after anyway? And where did he get all this blood?”

Later on, a few of Sam’s men tried to describe this scene for Matt. All in all, this is what they came up with: A perfectly round circle, about three feet in diameter, enclosed the entire delicately positioned diagram. The groove that made up this circle was one inch wide and one inch deep. A small amount of blood had been carefully poured into the groove all the way around. It had since soaked into the sandy dirt at the bottom of the groove. Inside this circle there was a square. Again, it looked to be perfectly proportioned. It was two and a half feet wide. It was aligned as such so that the corners were pointing exactly north, south, east, and west. Outside of the square, and above every corner was a symbol. These seem to have been pressed into the dirt with some sort of tool, and he must have used a template. They were exquisitely well-formed. At the north point stood a sun with thin, pointed rays. On the east side lay a triangle with an eye across the center of it. At the bottom, or south corner, there were two quarter moons facing each other, almost touching. Outside of the west corner there was a circle with a diamond inside of it. The diamond pointed north and south. It had a line going through it, also pointing north and south. This very straight line extended to and punctured through the circle.

Just under the lines inside the square were descriptive symbolizations that imperceptibly changed form as they rounded the corners. The form was one of four different languages, and four unrecognizable alphabets. They could have been numbers, for all the men knew. They could have been sentences or elaborate equations, or possibly, some type of formula. Whatever they meant, the man had to be a master calligrapher. These, too, were skillfully pressed into the dirt. These intricate inscriptions that flowed from their creator’s intimations revealed connotations of a diabolical intelligence graced with unearthly beauty. It was the talented handiwork of…of some kind of warped Luciferian vision, one that had been accidentally combined with an eye for the miraculous.

Underneath these lines, and centered in the square were two overlaid triangles, one pointing up and one pointing down. The triangle pointing down was smaller than the other one, so that although it still represented a five-pointed star, it wasn’t your average, normal symmetrical star. What remained of the very small fire lay in the middle of the star, and acted as the center-point of the whole geometric design. The man had used six to eight inch sticks to build his little pile. These sticks hadn’t been completely burnt down. They appeared to have had barely enough time to go up in flames before they were smothered out. There was something else rather odd about it. The ashes on the outer edges were white as snow, and it looked as if they had been crystallized.

Taken all together,  the whole structure had an otherworldly feel to it. It was obviously a finely-honed ritual that implied a knowledge of dark, cultish mores. What ever it was…there’d been a definite and exacting method inherent in his madness. After a few minutes of serene bewilderment, Sam stooped down and put his hand over the blackened embers. Then he carefully pushed his finger down into the pile. “It’s still warm, men. Couldn’t have been out for more than a couple of hours. That devil of a man must have taken his sweet time going to all this trouble. Let’s get the hell out of this God forsaken sanctuary. We’ll check the other path that goes up to the top. He had to have come in that way, and we’ll probably be able to tell which direction he’s headed. I hope you boys are up to it. It looks like we done got ourselves an outlaw to chase. Man, I need some air. Let’s go!”